


These Miles Together

by anotherineffableidiot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gabriel is a jerk, Homophobic Language, How Do I Tag, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence, NASCAR, Racing, Racing Omens, Satan is a mob boss, a major jerk, i will add as i go - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27380494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherineffableidiot/pseuds/anotherineffableidiot
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley has one goal in life: Win. And that is what he had been doing until someone slammed the breaks on his career. Crowley is not ready to call it quits just yet though and he sets out to get himself back on track.Aziraphale Angela is just trying to make it through life with old books, good food, and even better company. Too bad his family does not have the same ideas of success as him. Aziraphale is burning out and has nowhere left to turn.So how on God’s green Earth do they ever cross paths?Well, I will tell you how in 3...2...1…Go.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 7





	1. Cold Concrete

**Author's Note:**

> And we are off! I hope you all enjoy it, and if you do be sure to let me know in the comments. I am extremely excited to finally share this story with you, but I would never have reached this point with the amazing GayDemonicDisaster correcting my mess. So be sure to give them all the love as well! (And I honestly highly recommend their works, I am living for their “Roomba Of Doom” story).  
> CONTENT WARNING: TAGS WILL BE UPDATED AS RELEVANT
> 
> So without further ado, I give you Racing Omens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are off! I hope you all enjoy it, and if you do be sure to let me know in the comments. I am extremely excited to finally share this story with you, but I would never have reached this point with the amazing GayDemonicDisaster correcting my mess. So be sure to give them all the love as well! (And I honestly highly recommend their works, I am living for their “Roomba Of Doom” story)
> 
> So without further ado, I give you Racing Omens!

There are days that start out perfectly. Sun is up, the sky is clear, birds are singing. All in all, a day you wake up and have a full breakfast with the summer wind blowing through the open window. Truly an amazing feeling. 

Too bad that was not the case this morning.

On this particular morning, our man had slept in a bit. He did not care, of course, never seeming to find any time of the morning quite as pleasant as the stillness of an evening. He groaned as he swaggered downstairs and checked his phone. As expected there were multiple messages asking where he was. 

_‘Managers,’_ he thought. _‘Hate em, but hate the managing bit more.’_ With a simple command from his app, the window blinds opened in the minimalist flat. Stark greys and blacks had the stainless steel of his kitchen pop and yet blend seamlessly, an enjoyment that he would never admit to his designer. It kept him cool and collected as he went about his miserable morning, rain pelting lightly at the now exposed window. He starred in both disdain and yet a bit of joy as the offending liquid tapped the glass. This day was not perfect at all, and yet it was all the better in its own way. For if today had been perfect, we would be writing about an arrogant fool, a funeral, and a forever lost man.

Well, two of these will still come to pass, but only in time. It’s not for your understanding. I believe you would use the term butterfly effect, and how is any mortal supposed to understand such complexities as the beat of a butterfly wing?

You won’t. Sorry ‘bout that.

The man shivered and glanced around as if someone was present with him, but only the gray walls and the sound of the rain greeted him.

He closed the fridge door with a bit more force than necessary. It was then that the phone on the counter began to ring. The purest of rock began sounding against the empty walls, effectively drowning out the gentle rain. Our man only glares. He knows who it is and why they are calling, and he couldn’t care less, but that may take more effort than just answering the damned device. So after taking a moment to start the toaster, he picked up the cell. 

“‘Ello?” he asked as if anyone besides this caller ever spoke to him outside work.

“Where are you? You know you should've been at the track by now!” Well, physically outside of work anyway.

“Ah calm your temper Hastur, it's only half-past,” the first man answered.

“Half-past when you should have been here!” The man insisted. “And you know full well not to call me that, skidmark. It’s August for the thousandth time.”

“Sure,” the toast sprung up with a satisfying pop. As he shifted the cell to hold it with his shoulder he continued bugging the crew chief. “Hastur, Egor, August, all sound the same to me.”

A growl came back. “If it hadn’t started raining so bad I would hook you to the back of your car and drag you there myself!”

A laugh was his only response. He took a slow bite of the toast. “You can’t even drive that pathetic chevy you've got, don’t think you could handle my mustang.”

“Make an appearance at this track or I will find a new driver!” _‘Classic Hastur’._

“Yeah yeah, I’ll be there as long as you're not.”

“You’re pushing it, Crowley. B is here too, and you know what that means, burnout,” One could almost feel the smug look on Hastur’s face over every telephone connected to the local tower. A few homes down a cell phone short-circuited and caught fire in an unsuspecting man's pocket, not related.

Our man, Anthony J. Crowley, stilled for a moment. His toast now seemed heavy, and though his flat was as warm as a perfect day, he felt just a tad too cold. B was his team manager if you could really call them that. They more so just tore Crowley apart each day and retrieved their paycheck. Little attention was given to any day not including a race. That was Hastur’s job as far as Alex B. Zulbub was concerned. To show up on a day a race wasn’t happening meant…

“Well shit Hastur, best you clean up then,” Crowley fired back, starting to move a bit quicker through his morning routine. “Ah right sorry, forgot you were cursed to be a frog. Good luck!” and as Hastur started swearing back over the receiver, Crowley hung up.

Five more phones burst into flame. No relation.

Crowley began pouring coffee into a travel mug. He really couldn’t stand Hastur and his air of being higher than everyone else. The nickname had been courtesy of Crowley and had caught on easily as no one else cared for the pinched crew chief. He was simply stuck to the letter on everything and anyone with a toe out of line was fair game, meaning he harassed a lot of crewmates. 

‘ _Wouldn’t be surprised if we have the highest worker turnover,’_ Crowley thought in disdain as he began pulling on shoes. Crowley was a rose in contrast, but he was still a thorn in many people’s side. He fought hard to win, for his name to be at the top. It left many in the racing business with a bitter aftertaste as they spoke of him, though fans ate up the drama. He didn’t much care though, attention solely on being first. Anyone who caught his golden-green gaze knew they would be hard-pressed to stop him from what he had set his eyes on.

Which was why Alex B. Zulbub had stuck with the driver so long. Because they were also simple. Win and get paid. So long as Crowley assured that, B was content. Nothing more, no extra word spoken, no spare time wasted. Which was where the manager and driver did butt heads, Crowley seeing his schedule as the winning one and opening his mouth at every opportunity. So far this had worked in B’s favor though, and so they continued on with the absolute wreck of a crew, Hastur screeching and Crowley laughing in the background.

“Why are they at the track?” Crowley muttered in frustration, grabbing a set of familiar keys. It would surely throw off his entire plan for the day. “Perfect.”

Yes. Perfect indeed. 

~~~

Crowley’s ‘34 Bentley rolled smoothly into its usual space, tight against the driver’s side of Hasturs Chevy Cruze. That idiot didn’t get to leave a second earlier than Crowley did, which he only believed fair of someone in a management position. He lifted himself gracefully out of his treasured automobile, straightened the vintage sunglasses that he would wear the rest of the day and began his walk inside. Heads turned as the red-haired, black and red jumpsuit clad man made his way through the garages at the racetrack. A few other drivers were there but paid no attention to him. It was mostly the pit crews that looked, but only in disdain as they had heard what Crowley's team was like with its pit members. 

Truth be told, this mostly wasn’t Crowley. In fact, he may poke fun at the crew, but outside of Hastur, he really didn’t do anything outside trick them into trying to pick up a bolt or two glued to the ground. The problem was that Hastur often tortured the crew to the point that they blamed Crowley simply because he never stopped it. He more so just turned a blind eye, and since B wouldn’t care to save their life until they needed to save their paycheck, it meant endless abuse to the crew. It was all the workers thought as Crowley slid by.

The only exception to these onlookers were two very specific people. The first was an up-and-coming rival who only met the sunglasses-covered gaze for a brief fighting second before focusing back on her group with a roll of her eyes. Crowley sneered a little bit and moved on. Granted, he only went a few feet further before discovering his other rival was also at the track today. And this one wasn’t so passive.

“Yo, demon driver,” this new man shouted towards Crowley. “What are you up to today? I see you needed some extra shut-eye, huh Grandpa?”

Crowley smirked in response, hiding the deep annoyance behind the practiced facade. “Ah, featherweight. How I missed your celestial harmony of bullshit.” He turned only so slightly to allow a quick look at his opponent.

Said man chuckled in a not so funny way. His black hair was smoothed back, and his pristine white and silver accented uniform screamed that he had never seen a dirt road in his short life. He was a bit more of a rookie than their female competitor, in his very first year in fact. Crowley in comparison was a well-known champion, and he wasn’t about to let this guy take away the most wins title. It just wasn’t right in his opinion. If you have never drifted a car then should you really be allowed to race?

Someone thought so because here this idiot was speaking to Crowley.

“Is that any way to treat the future champion of the Daytona 500? Face it, buddy, retirement is this time next week,” he had now approached the other fully, much to Crowley's disappointment. He had places to be, people to bother, Hastur to spray with his water bottle, etc.

“Listen, rookie,” he spoke slowly. “Take my advice and keep in your place. At the bottom of the barrel, the millionth card in the collector's hand, that little bit of warm milk at the bottom of the glass,” Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “I will win this race. And I will decide when I retire. Now, go suck a lug nut and enjoy coming in second to this fabulous ass. Ciao, Ache.”

“It’s Arch,” the other stated flatly, false Colgate smile locked in place for appearance’s sake. “Gabriel ‘Arch’ Angela. And it will be on that cup next week.”

Crowley simply sauntered away, radiating confidence as Gabriel returned to his garage. Crowley of course was truly holding a wave of anger deep inside him, one that said he couldn’t lose. He wouldn’t let himself loose. There would be no allowing it. Not to that pompous asshat.

And that was why he may have come in a bit too hot to the garage, and left quite the impression on the man standing there. 

“Ah, Anthony J. Crowley,” a low voice spoke. Crowley locked eyes with a pair a colder yellow than his own. A type of cold brown almost, hungry green mixed in. Though Crowley stood taller, a part of him shrivelled up behind his fixed pleasantries.

“Luc Satana,” Crowley replied diplomatically. “Always a pleasure sir. Haven’t seen you out of the box recently. Keeping busy?”

“Oh yes,” Luc answered. “Very busy counting money and deciding where it should go. I was just talking to B here and it seems you aren’t always taking their professional advice?”

There is a very important point to make now. Before us is a character a bit different and yet all too similar to the others. See, a lot of money was in racing, investors and bids and all that. For a certain Luc Satana, there was also a bit more than that. He collected a higher pay than just bank accounts as gambling was quite the market right now. He would give people money, loans, advances if you will. And when pay time came around he made the same deal with everyone. If any other driver of their choice can beat his driver, then they can leave debt-free. And if their competitor lost, well, they signed the contract. In saving their family, it only seems fair they pay with something just as valuable.

That’s just boring business though.

Many would chalk this up as the reason Crowley was actually a major champion because he had to pay a bit back if he ever lost, especially to anyone a loaner had bid on. In that case, the payment was a bit more than just money. But that detail needn't be shared at this time. Just focus on the exchange, and you’ll understand.

“I am pretty sure I have listened intently to every word B has uttered into my ear,” Crowley defended himself.

Satana laughed and pulled Crowley closer into the garage with a firm hand on his shoulder that may have looked casual to anyone passing. But only caused Crowley yet another chill that rainy day as his boss said lowly “Then why do the people in the garage believe it is okay to even think about beating you? I figured for sure that there would have been a few mishaps already, especially to any newbies. You’d think that they would be suffering the worst hits.”

His final words were stressed, and Crowley swallowed. “They’re training them better these days.”

“Crowley,” Satana answered. “You of all people know that training isn’t the only thing a person needs to stay safe.”

Crowley was glad for the shades as he stilled, the air becoming thick as what felt like billions of eyes were on him. “Yes sir, I am aware,” he all but whispered. “And I am also aware that I still hold the most wins. I will win this race.”

“That is very good to hear!” Satana patted his driver a little forcefully. “Just keep listening to B then and we’ll all be okay.” Crowley nodded, his first movement in what felt like decades. Luc Satana made a few more raring to go remarks before leaving with two lethal-looking men following. He winked to Crowley before rounding the corner, and the NASCAR competitor felt every nerve in his body turn to TV static.

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my socials for artwork of these two idiots and more!  
> Instagram/Tumblr: anotherineffableidiot  
> Twitter: aineffableidiot
> 
> (Also, thought it would be fun to share a little insider bit with you: the title was decided on a coin flip when brainstorming title ideas with a friend at 2 am)


	2. Dysfunctional Heaven

Now, what a boring story if we were to sit at the racetrack all day. Even Crowley will agree that sitting still just wouldn’t fly in this town. But in a different town, not too far away, there was a man who took a liking to sitting still. He found it peaceful, and his soft blue eyes loved just taking it all in, every word and image a new experience. The weather was more in favor of this individual's day though as he returned to his closed bookshop to discover a voicemail.

Setting down his shopping bags containing mostly teas and cocoa, he pressed the play button and heard an all too familiar voice speak through to him. “Hey brother,” it started. “Look, the race is in a week and the family figures it would be good to get together for some food and to celebrate my placement. I know you’re not big on the scene, preferring your bus routes, but at the least, you’ll come for mom and the cooking eh? Never known you to turn down food, no matter how many belts you need to buy.” There was a chuckle as the shop owner frowned down at himself just a tad, more so in question than disappointment. “Anyhow, hope to see you Wednesday at six. Have fun with your books! Maybe…” and this part was whispered as if he was trying to hide it from someone unseen. “Even try some pornog-”

The message was cut off with a sharp _“deleted”_ from the automated voice. He was left frowning in the silent shop with his finger on the button like he was about to pull a trigger.

He set the phone down with a click.

~~~

Aziraphale Angela was not particularly an odd man, but no one could deny his expertise and widespread knowledge. Just like they couldn’t deny that the man was gay, though this theory had not been confirmed either. Just like most people though, they never asked and rumors continued unaccounted for. It is quite a toxic hobby really, rumor spreading. For if they’d only ask, they would have their answer gladly from Aziraphale’s lips.

Thus, it was with great delicacy that Aziraphale reorganized his bookshop for the third time in two days. The prospect of seeing his family always caused worry to his bones. You see, our Mr. Aziraphale had been a disappointment early in his life. Give him a toy sword and he used it to allow safe passage for frogs back to the water. Give him a ball and he would name it and forbid anyone to use it properly for fear of hurting it. At fifteen they had gotten a dog to keep the kids happy and active, but as his other siblings readily ran around parks, Aziraphle still sat on benches, nose in a book. Let it be known he still loved the dog, and the dog quite loved him, as he was a calm and warm body in the mess of activity. Seeing Golden would probably be the only real smile he would show the whole evening.

As Aziraphale exited the bus a little ways from the driveway, his heart sank a bit more. He was far from his shop, and try as he might, there was still another mile to cover on foot to the secluded family home. His guts twisted further with each step as if attached to a string and stretched like leather.

Why the nerves you may wonder? Well, the Angela family can be explained very simply like this: a polished mess. Never have they really managed to get along, especially not recently with Aziraphale. This is because Angela’s all have very fun lifestyles on account of their father, but Aziraphale has refused the ‘funding’ as they called it. So as Michelle travelled the world and made videos about it and Sandy became one of the top video gamers in the world, Aziraphale ran a bookshop and café. None of his family ever cared to visit him. Too “down-home cozy” for them, though his mother at least called once in a long while. It was an odd dynamic, but they had worked around it all.

There was a very nice monarch butterfly on the railing as Aziraphale knocked on the door. It flew off as Gabriel answered.

~~~

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel cheered. “I almost believed Sandy when he said you weren’t going to come. Eh, but I knew you’d show up big bro!” Aziraphale gave a slight smile and nodded. He really did love his family, but he also found that it was hard to deal with them sometimes. This was one of those times.

“Hello Gabriel,” Aziraphale greeted, moving into the large house past his brother. It was a very clean and empty feeling home. They had moved there when he was eight and his parent’s business was really taking off. Aziraphale never really liked it. He spent most of his time outdoors around the lake and in the woods. He loved finding little animals and most often would sit around feeding ducks when he had the time. He felt more at home at the edge of that lake with some bread and a book than he ever did in his large and modern looking house. It was a feeling that returned the second he entered.

“We got a great supper lined up to celebrate my upcoming victory,” Gabriel continued with a close of the door. They headed toward the sitting room just off the dining room to wait for dinner. “I made sure to have the best food because I know how much you enjoy fine dining.” At this comment, Gabriel gave a slight poke to Aziraphale’s stomach and the older gave a deadpan look.

“I see your sense of humor hasn’t changed Gabe, much like your sense of pride.”

“Ah come on, I was only joking. Besides, mom is excited to see you again.” He didn’t actually roll his eyes, but after knowing him so long Aziraphale knew that he was. It was his way of saying what he had said so often already _‘The prodigal son returns.’_ Though there was a little less venom to it. Aziraphale would’ve concluded that it was due to his brother actually growing up a bit, but that thought was dashed as they entered the room.

“The star has returned with our duckling!” he announced, standing proudly as they entered the much more crowded room than Aziraphale had thought it would be. Quite a few people laughed and a few that Aziraphale recognized waved. This event was apparently much larger than his brother’s message had led him to believe.

Aziraphale swallowed and as Gabriel quickly began heading into the crowd, Aziraphale skirted the edge of the expensively dressed visitors. He had come in a nice cream suit and tartan bow tie as a nice touch of his own personality, but he still somehow felt underdressed in comparison to the dresses and tuxes around him. Finally, he reached the hallway and shuffled down to the room that held what he was looking for.

He opened the door and slipped in just in time to have a large weight push him back against the door, closing it again. Aziraphale laughed and looked down at his attacker. The old golden retriever's eyes gazed happily back at him. “Hey Golden. How've you been? Fed well I assume?”

Golden answered by nudging at Aziraphale’s hands until the man had sat on the ground and began giving the dog all the attention he so craved. He was rewarded in return with wet kisses to his cheek. “Come now Golden, you wouldn’t get away with that with anyone else you know that?”

Golden only chuffed happily and then laid on the Aziraphale’s legs. Aziraphale may have sat there the whole night if it wasn’t then that someone else came into the room.

“Aziraphale,” a warm but strong voice spoke. His mother entered with a proud smile. “I knew this is where you would end up. Ever in love with Golden.”

Aziraphale smiled back. It wasn’t actually often he got to see his mother alone. In fact, this was probably the last time since he moved out permanently. His father had a bodyguard posted to her and in the house there always seemed to be at least one other sibling around. He wasn’t about to lose this moment.

“Always in love with every creature I can find that doesn't try to hurt me,” Aziraphale admitted. He got back to his feet and gave a hopeful smile to his mother. She shut the door on the noise and then hugged him for the first time in eternity.

“How is my little garden guardian?” she asked him as she pulled back, but didn’t let go of his hands.

“Well Mama, the bookshop is doing great. There is more money in it than I think Father has ever understood.”

“I can believe it,” she agreed. “There is money in everything a person is passionate about. And I have been watching those bids,” she smirked at Aziraphale’s slight embarrassment. “Don’t worry, sugar cube, your secret is safe with me. And no need to bring up any finances in this household. We all know it only ends horribly anyhow.” Her face darkened a bit, but she moved on swiftly. “And are you still living above the shop? Haven't gotten yourself that little house with the garden and pond yet have you?”

“You still remember that?”

“Of course,” she assured him in her warm voice. “Still have the little drawing tucked safely away. I can’t wait to visit someday. Have you anyone to share it with yet?”

Aziraphale felt himself get a bit redder but smiled and shook his head. “Mama, you know I would tell you if I had.” Truth be told, Aziraphale had never really devoted time to even looking for a partner, much less being with one. He was content with his books and his community family and friends. He had yet to come across anyone that could offer him any peace close to that.

“I know my guardian,” his mother assured him and took one of his hands in both of hers. “I just hope you stay true to yourself. You have done so well of it so far, I can’t stand to see you change for anyone. Even me.” She said this last bit a tad sternly, as any mother would when conveying their love for their child. It was a promise retold, and yet not assured enough.

Aziraphale nodded, as every child who doubts the promise every time does. He was only just a bit nervous about this evening. He knew the questions that would come out, and this time he planned on answering truthfully no matter what was asked. “They're going to ask again.” He stated his thoughts out loud.

She nodded and looked to the window, at the murky sky beyond. “And you will answer. As always.”

Aziraphale took a breath. “Not as always,” he could hear his neighbour’s encouragement, the kid’s laughter, that girl Pepper’s confidence, and he resolved himself further. “I plan to tell, not answer.”

His mother looked back directly to his eyes, her bright blues searching his very soul. Finally, she gave a small smile from deep inside herself. “Truly my son, I believe you will.”

“I love you, Mama,” he almost whispered, his free hand resting softly on Golden’s still head at his side.

“And I will always love you, my guardian,” she whispered back.

This exchange is not understandable for anyone who hasn’t gone through it themselves. This was a son who believed his mother would not stand with him, and this was a mother who wished she could. This was a goodbye message before the need for a goodbye had presented itself. Aziraphale believed his mother would never take him back after this, and this was a mother who believed her son would never wish to return. These words were the first winds of the storm, and this last hug was the start of the pressure.

~~~

The two left the room and merged back into the guests as seamlessly as the rich know-how. It wasn’t long until dinner was called to begin and guests were directed to their seats in the large dining area that had its usual long table set up changed to multiple round tables. The biggest, in the center of the room, was where Aziraphale headed. He took his usual spot to the right of his father, his mother and sister the furthest away. His mother caught his eye for only a second, but it was enough for him to gain just a bit more confidence. Or at least enough to stop his hand from shaking too much.

“Aziraphale,” his father greeted slowly. He smiled professionally at his son as the starter was served. Aziraphale took a sip of the soup without actually tasting it. “Your brother has made quite an impression on the track. Following the family genes just right.”

“Thanks pop,” Gabriel smiled proudly. “I’m giving them all a run for their money in your car.”

Their father laughed, his body barely moving an inch with it. The perfectly combed hair didn’t even shift a fraction. He was locked into place, body and spirit. “The car is only as good as the driver, my boy. It is you that gives the engine its strength. A true Angelo jet, you are. I’m proud kiddo.” Chatter seemed to go mute in Aziraphale’s ears as he processed through the slight pain that statement made. His father had never once said he was proud of Aziraphale, and so he had grown accustomed to quickly rebounding when hearing his siblings get the craved praise. He remembered making art that never got the smile his sister’s photos did and getting the best of the tournament while Gabriel got the most valuable player. All he had was his books, his grades. But that never interested their father as much. He would get the occasional good and a few nods and smiles, but he had never heard his father address him with praise.

Aziraphale took another sip of his soup.

His father spent a lot of time talking with Gabriel, the rest of the family putting in a few words and Aziraphale smiling and nodding as needed. His father then moved on to his sister Michelle and his brother Sandy. Finally, as the dessert was going to be served, his father turned to him.

“And you Aziraphale? How has that… business been holding up?”

“Well Father,” he answered. Happy to be starting out on something he could so easily be proud of. His love of books was the first admission. “My books are some of the most sought after in the world. Many collectors come through. I sometimes turn them down of course. The books are very interesting to read.”

His father raised a slight eyebrow and Michelle tilted her head a bit. “Well, that sounds interesting,” was his father's attempted response. “Always did have your head in a book. Do wish it didn’t always have a child on the front of it.”

Another breath. “Actually, I find they often center children in the books to express how little control we have. When we are younger there is more to overcome, and so we can relate to a younger character better because it helps us address our own faults through the eyes of someone with belief still ingrained in them. Children are often more hopeful.”

“And there is not a soul more hopeful than you,” Sandy tried to dig at Aziraphale. The eldest simply smiled.

“Thank you. I do wish people to see me as someone with a belief still.”

There was a beat of silence before his father took charge again. “Surely you must find scholarly books interesting as well, yes? Do you think you will go to school again to move further than just English? We could support you.”

Another known question, but one he had often shied away from. The pudding was delivered as he answered. “No, I will not be returning to school. I am almost forty, and I am doing very well with my current degree. If I require more schooling, I will go through with it myself. Thank you for the offer though.”

Now this one left a true silent moment. His whole family was now staring at him as his father continued to try and bring things back to what they once were. “Well, I am still here if you need any support. There is a lot to this world outside those books you know.”

“Perhaps,” was Aziraphale’s usual answer. But this time he elaborated. “But no, I am content as I am. I’ve even made some new recipes that you could try if you’d care to come to the shop one day.”

The invitation was finally out. Aziraphale had never once said his family couldn’t come, but yet they never came. Now the ball was in his father's court. An invitation had been made, and to ignore visiting now means he has no way to blame Aziraphale. “Well,” his father began diplomatically. “Perhaps one day. Though I see no reason to worry yourself cooking when we have one of the best chefs in the world employed right here, where you could have cuisine served to you every day.”

The game was getting dicey now. His siblings didn’t dare cut in here, and his mother simply watched on without seeming to blink. The surrounding tables had gotten a bit quieter, but only on account of the unseen tension. People still continued to laugh as if nothing was about to explode in the centre of the room.

“I am happy to cook,” Aziraphale stated, catching himself from tripping over the words. “It is quite relaxing and satisfying to create and enjoy something. To be self-sustainable is quite freeing. And I will stay at the bookshop for some time yet, I am sure.”

“Are you seeing a woman Aziraphale?” his father suddenly jumped topics.

Aziraphale tensed and the world seemed to pause. His father had never outright asked him this, and though he had considered it a possibility, he hadn’t actually prepared well for this question. And so Aziraphale simply sputtered “N-no.”

“Then why do you keep that shop like one?” he asked. “Surely to impress someone. I can’t think of any other logical reason you would turn down these offers unless someone else was a part of the picture.”

Aziraphale bristled a bit. “My bookshop is a home, but not like this. My customers are family, and I will stay there as long as they wish me to. They love my baking, and I host study groups for the high schoolers. Wedding parties will have their photos done there. People take their first dates to my café for the pastries I make alone. They are the picture and I am one a part of it, not the other way around.”

Now there was definitely a hush around the room as people took notice of what was happening. Azirahplahe hid his shaking hands in his lap, clenching them tightly as he focused on his breathing and his father, who was now looking directly into his eyes. Aziraphale’s courage was quickly dwindling, confidence dying at the bottom of his gut. His father spoke.

“I understand. This is not your home, nor your family. You have apparently found a new one. Correct?” his voice had become hard. “No need for us. No need to come back here ever again. You are fine with your books and to deny ever needing help. Is there anything else you would care to tell us? Anything you wish to say before I speak my last words to you?”

Aziraphale felt constricted into himself. His emotions seemed to tense up but before he could say another word, Gabriel seemed to find his own voice.

“Well Aziraphale, you could start by telling them why you actually aren’t with a woman yet.” His brother wasn’t actually smiling, but the second oldest had seized the opportunity to climb the ranks of inheritance and favouritism. It was always a competition for him, and this was his chance to ensure he stayed on top. He was going to win this race, even if it meant sending Aziraphale to the pits in pieces. “You seemed so ready to accept it that night we went to that party together.”

There was a slight whisper from Michelle as she tried to get Gabriel to stop talking. Sandy had appeared to stop breathing, muscles tense for fight or flight. Gabriel only plowed on as their mother tried to reach a hand past her daughter in a weak attempt to stop what she believed should be done.

At Aziraphale’s continued silence Gabriel huffed. “Fine, I guess I get to tell them you’re into dick now.”

His father’s head whipped toward Gabriel with a frown and said son recoiled slightly. There was a shift in atmosphere as whispers shot through the room and their mother snapped at Gabriel for the crude language. When his father turned back to Aziraphale, the other was horrified and stood quickly, backing away from his father as he stood as well with a large room. “Upstairs, now.” He all but growled under his breath.

Aziraphale froze. No, he wanted to shout. There was no way he would give in to this. He was his own man, his father shouldn’t have this much power over him. He shouldn’t. It wasn’t right. And so Aziraphale stood still, eyes locked on the ground and wishing he could raise his voice back.

“Then get out,” his father whispered. The entire room watched now, dozens of eyes focused on the family that had all risen from their seats.

So Aziraphale left. His steps were loud in the silence and carried him swiftly away. Away from his father, his mother, his siblings, and anything of the life he had known in this empty house. He heard Golden whimpering as he walked through the sitting room and the tears finally crested the edge of his eyes. He left without looking up.

A butterfly shuddered in the garden. Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn’t want to keep you guys waiting any longer! Things have gone pretty crazy in the last week, and I am sure you all are experiencing a bit of it. I do intend to be updating this biweekly and have now reached a good point again to get back into it, so thank you all for your patience! Hope you’re enjoying it so far!


	3. False Contracts

It was finally racing day and Crowley could feel a bead of sweat on the back of his neck from more than just the heat of the race suit. He had to win today. One, because he will hold the most Daytona wins to a single driver; but two, because he was a dead man otherwise. ‘Too many people betting against you this year,’ his sponsor had informed him. ‘Too much to chance. Too much on that Angela fellow.’ That was his way of saying that not only should Crowley win, but he had to make sure Angela lost. And not just the race. He meant a few notes of confidence, a few parts of his car, and a few healthy bones.

Now, don’t panic. This wasn’t the first time Crowley had been told to do such things. And because this wasn’t the first time, Crowley had found a better solution. He often found ways around these plans through things like pit crew malfunctions, he himself not pulling ahead till the last second, appearing as though he was caught up by another car, etc. Crowley always managed to ensure that the orders were followed to the absolute bare minimum. And up until today that seemed like enough for his sponsor, but today’s order had come with a bit of an extra tone.

_ ‘If he isn’t out for the next season, you’re out for the rest of your career.’ _

Thus Crowley was extremely on edge. He even showed up early today to set up as many things as he could to ensure his opponent’s safe loss. Surely there was a way to beat him without actually, well, beating him. As much as Crowley boasted, he couldn’t quite bring himself to outright risk another driver’s life, could he? It was his own career on the line. He might never race again. Racing was all he had. If he didn’t race, who was he?

The sweat continued. Even the starting rumble of his car and the familiar sound of B in his ear as they started around the track wasn’t focusing him today. They were locked in and Crowley took some deep breaths, knowing his knuckles were white under his gloves. The track was clear, a few clouds lazily causing some shaded patches. People were yelling, but he couldn’t hear it over the roar of the engines. He carefully steered left and right, heating his wheels on the asphalt and trying to take the edge off. He was starting near the front of the grid, so at least he didn’t have much distance to cover. A glance to his right showed the familiar deep blue of the “witch chariot”. Its driver flicked a hand at him, but he simply looked back to the track. Today was definitely not the day he would be greeting people, nicely or otherwise.

The flag was out and they were off. Accelerate, turn, breathe, accelerate. Always pushing faster. From the second humanity could move, they were racing each other. Everything was competition, a game of stakes and risk. But that is what it means to be human correct? To take the risk, to push yourself beyond your own known limits. Humanity doesn’t even know how fast it is going. It makes NASCAR look like a snail’s pace. And today that truth was nagging at Crowley’s mind. He was going fast, extremely fast. Yet he felt as if time was ticking to a stop. He seemed to make only one turn before they were pitting again and only had fifty laps left.

“Crowley,” B’s voice came into his headset as he pulled from the pits. “What are you doing idiot? There hasn’t been a single flinch in your car.”

Crowley growled back. “I’m going to win.”

“I know that dumbass,” B shot back. “But who will lose?”

Crowley shook his head, helmet seeming too heavy. They were soon off again and he was upfront, Angela the only competitor in front of him. The back of his car seemed to tease the older man, and Crowley took it to mean ‘come kick my ass.’

Now, here is what no one else knew yet.

Crowley had shown up early and it wasn’t only for his sponsors' benefit. It was specifically so this conversation could happen.

“You actually showed up?” Gabriel shouted over the noise of the garages. Crowley turned his attention to the predicted shout and laughed.

“I could ask you the same thing rookie,” he responded. He swallowed as he approached the other driver. “Still thinking you can win against me?”

Gabriel smirked. “Win? I’ll wipe the track with you, skid mark.”

Overconfident, perfect. That was what Crowley needed to exploit. It was the downfall of every young driver from the start of time till the finish of it. “Faster perhaps. I will not drag such a fine car through the mud,” Crowley admitted slowly. “But better? No. You have no technique, no pazazz. You might win, but no one will really remember it. Oh, a rookie won. Hurrah, another underdog story. Don’t we all love those and then chuck the movie ticket out at the exit.” Crowley leaned just slightly closer, radiating confidence. “People don’t notice you.”

That seemed to sting at something in Gabriel, a chord deep from his past that caused his soul to darken in his eyes. Crowley knew he had him. Gabriel would cause his own fall in his next sentence. “You think they won’t remember me? Do you think they won’t remember when I win by a full lap? I won’t beat you, Crowley, I will destroy you.”

_ ‘You’ll destroy yourself kid.’  _ “I look forward to seeing you try.”

And with that, we are back on the track, Crowley catching a glimpse of Gabriel as they entered the last lap. He truly was on track to win by a whole lap, but with the lack of experience Crowley had, it caught the rookie off guard completely when his tyre popped on the third turn. Crowley felt the tension shoot out of him with a laugh as he sped up. This was what he had counted on to happen. Gabriel had skipped the pits in order to get ahead, and it just cost him the grand lead.

Crowley shot on the gas; Anathema quickly on his tail. The sun shone down on the finish line like a pot of heaven, and as Crowley peeled past Gabriel he gave a quick wave. The flag dropped, placing Crowley in first, Anathema in second, and Gabriel reeling in tenth.

The rest was a bit of a blur. Accepting the trophy, being congratulated as the new record holder, the cheering. It was as amazing as it had always been, and yet something still nagged at Crowley. It had for a few years now, but as usual, he ignored it. He did manage to catch something different in the rush though. The look of absolute hate from Gabriel, one that said he would be Crowley’s new nightmare. And for an instant, Crowley felt a chill on the back of his neck. Those eyes were cold and promised ruin for what Crowley had done to him.

That was shoved to the very back of his mind though when he returned from celebrating to the quiet garage, where Satana was waiting for him.

“Oh Crowley,” Satana sighed. “I suppose this is the end.”

Crowley blinked slowly, looking at the crew around Satana. B tried looking as uninterested as possible, whereas Hastur was brimming with excitement. Crowley quickly filed the look away in the nightmare folder and focused back on the conversation. “What do you mean? I won, Angela lost and was humiliated. Everything is done as you asked.”

Satana was suddenly in Crowley’s face, his presence jabbing ice into Crowley's quickly beating heart. “I said to rid us of him for a season. If anything, he will be back now with a vengeance. He will win. And so, we will be revoking our sponsorship.”

Crowley’s face drained of colour. Almost his entire racing career relied on Satana’s sponsorship. If he lost it, he lost… everything. “But-“ he tried. “I- he didn’t… win.” Crowley felt his anger spike. “You can’t do this!”

Crowley was suddenly seeing stars. Satana had slammed Crowley’s head back into the concrete wall hard enough that he could do nothing more than slide shakily to the ground at Satana's feet. “No one yells at me,” Satana’s voice spoke slowly through the fog. “Especially not you.”

As the footsteps of a crew fully supported by Satana's sponsorship receded into the distance, Crowley heard one last thing before blacking out. “Good luck Crawly,” Hastur laughed.

~~~

Crowley had awakened to many strange predicaments, but freezing water and the eyes of Anathema was not one he ever believed to be on the list. He choked up water for a second before the pain came rushing back to him and he collapsed back down with a pathetic groan.

“There’s blood here Anathema,” he heard a voice say, way too loud. Crowley hissed as Anathema answered in the darkness around him.

“Head wound. Bleed a lot. Though I do suspect he has a concussion based on how he is acting.”

“We should call the police,” the first voice spoke again.

Crowley did his best to growl a no, but it came as more of a gasping noise of protest.

Anathema scoffed. “You’re in no condition to move.”

Crowley finally managed the ability to open his eyes again and locked them onto Anathema’s deep browns. She was still in her suit, so it hadn’t been too long. She was probably right about his health, but the police weren’t allowed to be a part of this. They would ask questions, and Crowley would really be dead if anything short of a mouse looked at Satana as the culprit.

“Jus- ‘iveme some pain… stopper,'' he gurgled out. Damn, his head hurt. He lifted a hand slowly to the main source of the pain and felt a spot on the back of his head that was sticky. Nothing felt broken though, just like the world’s worst hangover and the sting of air of an open cut. “’s nothin’ serious. I can see straight. Been in worse.”

Anathema just shook her head. “I don’t know why we bothered.” She stood and left. Her companion Crowley now noticed was the younger man that directed her pit crew. Crowley winked at him and he blinked back dumbly as Anathema returned with pills and more water.

“Here,” she said, setting it by Crowley. “Come on Newt. Let the fallen king rest in the grave he dug.”

And with that, Crowley was alone again. He focused on breathing first, then slowly getting to his side just in time to throw up.

This was going to be a fun ride.

~~~

Crowley wouldn’t deny that he felt like death was going to claim him at any moment, but he managed to get back to his flat and change before calling an ambulance. The number of times he nearly collided with another car while driving back just wasn’t fair to put his Bentley through again, and he really didn’t want to keep his eyes open much longer. Thankfully he didn’t have to as the ambulance arrived promptly. Crowley had just enough time to explain how he slipped backward and fell down the stairs before he was hushed by the paramedic.

Crowley couldn’t quite recall the rest properly. There were lights too bright, sounds too loud, and movements too quick. He tried to think through everything, but all he could think about was venomous eyes and the feeling of loss. He had won, but really he had lost so much more. Has it all been worth it?

An IV dripped in a room down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my socials for artwork of these two idiots and more!  
> Instagram/Tumblr: anotherineffableidiot  
> Twitter: aineffableidiot
> 
> Disclaimer: Many of these characters are property of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett, and any associated companies. NASCAR is also not mine. The storyline is my own and any references to real people beyond this are coincidental and not intended unless obviously stated/referenced.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my socials for artwork of these two idiots and more!  
> Instagram/Tumblr: anotherineffableidiot  
> Twitter: aineffableidiot
> 
> Disclaimer: Many of these characters are property of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett, and any associated companies. NASCAR is also not mine. The storyline is my own and any references to real people beyond this are coincidental and not intended unless obviously stated/referenced.
> 
> (Also, thought it would be fun to share a little insider bit with you: the title was decided on a coin flip when brainstorming title ideas with a friend at 2 am)


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